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Chapter 6
Celeste
The clink of cutlery against porcelain was a fucking symphony compared to the chaos brewing inside my head. Across from me, Gavin St. James—with those devilish hazel eyes that could probably charm the panties off a nun—was all smiles and suave moves. We were sitting in one of those swanky Chicago restaurants where the waiters judged your wine choice harder than a Catholic mom at confession.
"Art must be such a freeing expression," he crooned, leaning forward as if every word I'd say was gospel. I hummed noncommittally, sipping on my wine—cheap by this joint's standards but enough to give my tongue a crimson bath.
"Absolutely," I said, plastering an oh-so-convincing grin on my face. "Nothing screams 'freedom' like smearing your soul on a canvas for snobs to interpret."
Gavin laughed, that deep, intoxicating sound that almost made me forget the dark corners of my mind. Almost.
"Your passion is captivating, Celeste," he complimented with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he wasn't just talking about the art.
"Flattery," I giggled back, letting the corner of my mouth quirk up in what I hoped was a seductive smirk.
But as our light banter volleyed back and forth, my treacherous thoughts kept slithering away from the man in front of me. They drifted, unbidden, to the ghost in the machine—the elusive secret admirer who had turned my anonymous blog into his personal confessional slash erotic fantasy diary.
"Consensual stalking," the words echoed in my mind, laced with a danger that sent shivers down my spine. The proposal was ludicrous, deranged... and goddamn if it didn't light a fire in the pit of my stomach.
Excitement and apprehension were doing the tango in my chest, each step they took sending conflicting signals to every nerve ending in my body, my clit included. Thoughts of being watched, hunted almost, should have sent me running for the hills. Instead, I found myself intrigued by the twisted romance of it all. What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
"Earth to Celeste," Gavin's teasing voice cut through my internal monologue, and I snapped back to reality—or whatever version of it we were pretending to play out.
"Sorry, just pondering the complexities of the human condition," I lied smoothly, or at least as smoothly as someone who was mentally juggling lust, fear, and a possible crime in progress could manage.
"Sounds intense," he replied with a knowing look that made me wonder if he saw right through my bullshit.
The clink of silverware against porcelain, the hum of conversation around us – it was all white noise compared to the incessant buzz in the back of my head. Gavin was saying something about a recent art exhibit he'd visited, but his words were drowned out by an odd sensation creeping over me like a shadow at sunset. I had that eerie feeling you get when you're alone in your apartment and swear someone is watching you from outside, peering through the slats of the blinds.
"Everything okay?" Gavin asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern as he caught the flicker of my eyes darting around the room.
"Fine, just thought I saw someone I knew," I lied, flashing a quick smile that felt more like a grimace. I glanced over my shoulder again, scanning the sea of faces. Nobody stood out. No piercing eyes locked on mine. Just couples engrossed in their own worlds and waiters weaving through tables with practiced indifference. "Chicago's too damn small sometimes," I joked, trying to shake the feeling off.
Back to Gavin, back to normalcy. His laugh was genuine, a sound that should have warmed me right up, but tonight it couldn't thaw the ice prickling along my spine. Someone might be watching. That sick proposal from my admirer echoed in my mind, blurring the line between paranoia and possibility. I wanted to believe it was just my imagination running fucking marathons.
"Tell me about it," he said, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
The conversation moved on, but my mind didn't. It wandered down darker alleys, slipping into places that would make a shrink raise an eyebrow. Lately, my nights had been filled with fantasies that strayed far from vanilla—thoughts that would have once made me blush now made me come undone. The kind of shit that involved ropes, blindfolds, and begging. Begging for release or just for more, I wasn't sure.
It wasn't just the physical act—it was the surrender, the control I handed over willingly in my mind. I needed those masochistic daydreams to tip me over the edge, to drown out the memory of betrayal that still stung like a fresh wound. Trust was a five-letter word I wasn't ready to spell out again, not after the last bastard took mine and shredded it like confetti.
"Are you sure you're okay? You seem...distracted." Gavin's voice cut through my twisted reverie, pulling me back to the land of half-eaten appetizers and candlelight.
"Sorry, I'm just...sexually frustrated as hell," I blurted out, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. My filter was apparently on a smoke break.
Gavin choked on his drink, coughing and laughing in one breath. "Well, that's refreshingly honest."
"Never been one to sugarcoat the fucked-up dessert that is my life," I said with a shrug, picking at food with a fancy fork.
"Speaking of desserts..." He signaled the waiter, a playful glint in his eye.
"Cheesecake won't fix my libido issues, but I appreciate the effort," I joked, unable to suppress a smirk.
"Who says it's the cheesecake that's meant to help with that?" he retorted, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks.
"Bold move, Mr. Smooth Talker," I said, taking a long sip of my wine.
But he wasn’t getting into these pants tonight. Not with Casper the Pervy Ghost potentially lurking around.
